


Da Capo Al Fine

by arturas



Series: The Working Title EP [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games), Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Drug Abuse, Implied Alek/Revan, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Liiiiiiitle bit of blood, Lots of bad language, Other, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arturas/pseuds/arturas
Summary: Revan, lead vocals and namesake of Revanchist, waits impatiently in the studio for Alek - lead guitarist andfucking junkie thief- to arrive for an important discussion. Surely this can't endbadly.Aka: the "jaw scene" of this particular rock band AU.
Relationships: Alek | Darth Malak & Revan
Series: The Working Title EP [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155938
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Da Capo Al Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for some mild-ish violence, a bit of blood, drug and alcohol references, plenty of angst, plenty of feelings, some vaguely implied Alek/Revan and a _lot_ of bad language.
> 
> "da capo al fine" (dah cahpo al fee-nay) = a musical term meaning "repeat from the beginning to the end".
> 
> Same AU as the rest of the series, set before "The Audition". A little less crack and a bit more worldbuilding this time. And as always, big thanks to Clio Codex for co-creating and continuing to enable the madness.

_shame pulses through my heart  
from the things I've done to you  
it's hard to face but the fact remains  
that this is nothing new_

~ “Almost Easy”, Avenged Sevenfold

* * *

Revan takes a great deal of pride in his studio space. After all the work he’s put into the band it’s rewarding to have such a visual, tactile display of his successes – brand-name equipment, backup gear for their backup gear, personalized and customized instruments, the fact that while Enclave still kind of _owns_ the building the studio is effectively Revanchist’s domain… and that’s not even getting _started_ on the merch stockpiled around the place. Or the freebies sent as thinly-veiled bribes from the various corporations eager to have them do promotional work. Or the framed posters from their various tours, the framed vinyls representing their award-winning albums – and while he’s not exactly proud of them he is a particularly big fan of the well-stocked mini-bars in each of the soundproofed rehearsal rooms. Useful, those.

It’s just a shame that he’s been here alone for that past _three fucking hours_ because Alek, the goddamn _knobhead_ , can’t be on time for something as simple as a one-on-one meeting between friends and band founders. _Three hours_ , Alek. Jesus cunting Christ.

He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Alek hasn’t been on-time for anything in months now. Apparently being friends with a guy since they were in nappies just doesn’t mean as much as it once did.

Then again, that’s kind of why he’s here in the first place. Because it still kind of does, at least to him. Anyone else in the band he’d have not even bothered to talk to, just thrown them out on their ass and let legal rip them to shreds but… it’s Alek. It’s _always_ fucking Alek. From the very fucking _start_ it was always Alek and he really shouldn’t be surprised that even now it _continues_ to be Alek.

Revan eyes off the main rehearsal room’s mini-bar sourly. _God_ , does he want a drink. But if he’s going to pull the band through this mess he needs his wits about him and his emotions under control. He’ll just add it to the list of things he can be pissed with Alek for.

You know. As if the spiraling-out-of-control coke habit and _stealing money from the goddamn band_ wasn’t ammunition enough.

He’s still furious that it wasn’t him who realized it first. Him, who’d known Alek since before either of them could really talk. Him, the de facto leader and shitting _namesake_ of Revanchist. If anyone should have figured it out it should have been him. But it wasn’t. Surik was the one to discover the money skimmed from the Telos tour payments and bloody _HK_ was the one to point out that the timing coincided with the worst of Alek’s mood swings – fuck, he _knew_ Alek had been hitting things hard but to the point of stealing from the band? Stealing from _him_?

The worst part is he still doesn’t know if he genuinely didn’t see the signs or if he just overlooked them because it was more convenient than facing the truth. Because he didn’t want to consider that he might be losing his best and oldest friend to something they’d started together. Because facing it would mean admitting that maybe, just _maybe_ , his plans for the band’s future all kind of revolved around Alek somehow and he didn’t really have a plan for if Alek was no longer there.

Or maybe Alek’s just a fucking cocky prick who assumes that the effects of his drug-fueled musical genius coupled with their friendship will be enough for Revan to try and sweep things under the rug the way he always has.

_Christ_ , Revan wants a fucking drink.

Prior to Malachor shit hadn’t been this bad. Yeah, okay, it wasn’t exactly a high point for them as individuals but it _was_ a high point for the band; the months after that festival were some of their most successful to date. “The Outer Rim” hit gold status, then platinum. _Fuck Manaan_ debuted to an immediate number-one ranking (where it stayed for an unprecedented ten weeks and earned multi-platinum in its own right – if The Mandalorians hadn’t dissolved in the wake of Malachor he’d have sent a fucking flower bouquet to them congratulating them on having their five-week gold-level record for _Basilisk War Droid_ smashed twice over). The phones rang off the hook with requests for interviews, endorsements and collaborations. Shit, they even made international headlines for the first time. They booked their first European headline tour mere _weeks_ after Malachor – there’s no arguing it was good for them.

And, okay, yes, he’d let the success get to him a little. They’d worked fucking _hard_ for that shit; he figured they were entitled to celebrate equally as hard. At least for a while. He’d pulled his shit in after almost wrecking himself – he’d just assumed Alek would be able to do the same.

Yet here he is, all alone in an empty studio rehearsal room, staring down a mini-bar more than three hours after Alek was due to arrive for a casual chat.

Alek had _better_ fucking appreciate this. Revan wouldn’t do this for just anyone.

(He’s not going to let himself wonder if Alek would extend the same generosity to him. He’s not. He’s _not_.)

It’s a Saturday afternoon so the building’s empty but for him – no reception, no security, no activity. Ordinarily he’d leave the studio door closed while jamming but he hasn’t really been jamming, just occasionally strumming at chords or half-assedly mumbling his way through songs and drafts of songs, so the door’s been left ajar. He’s not really feeling it today. The strumming’s more of a subconscious habit than anything else and the singing – well. He’s the fucking lead singer; the day he doesn’t sing is the day he gives up on the band entirely.

Also, it means he can hear the very moment the outer doors creak open, that he can hear exactly how slowly the footsteps echo down the corridor.

Of course the prick isn’t even _trying_ to make up for being so late.

‘Revan?’ a familiar voice echoes. Small mercies; it’s not slurred. Yet. ‘Main studio, yeah?’

_Fuck_ does Revan want a drink.

Instead he grits his teeth, sets the guitar back on the stand, clenches his fists in his armpits. ‘Yeah,’ he calls out, because the disaster meandering down the hall is his best and oldest friend and though he _really_ wants to punch the cunt in the jaw an effective lifetime of friendship demands at least a basic attempt at courtesy first. Punching can come later. Wouldn’t be the first time and almost certainly won’t be the last. ‘Main studio. Fucking – do you know what time it is?’

Alek shoulders the door fully open. He’s got an open bottle of some micro-brewery IPA in one hand and his phone in the other, barely even looking up as he stumbles his way inside. He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed – kind of impressive without hair, since the bastard’s still as bald as he was at Malachor – and of course he’s wearing that fucking red travesty of a jacket. _Christ_.

‘Like… midday?’ Alek says, not even fully looking up at him. ‘One, maybe. Whatever.’

‘It’s three-forty.’

‘Oh.’ He blinks, shakes his head, and takes a long swig from his beer. Revan’s tongue itches just watching him – why the fuck does _Revan_ have to be the responsible one here? ‘Close enough, right?’

‘You were meant to be here more than _three fucking hours_ ago.’

He shrugs carelessly. Thoughtlessly. ‘Well I’m here now, aren’t I?’

Revan’s eyelid twitches. _Calm_ , he tells himself; he was expecting this. He knew this was coming. He might have hoped for a better showing but really, deep down he _knew_ that Alek wouldn’t treat this conversation with the gravitas it deserved.

He grinds his teeth. ‘Indeed. Any idea why I asked you here in the first place?’

‘Because you’re a neurotic over-planner that wouldn’t be satisfied with a text message?’

‘Because I saw the gap from the fucking Telos payments, Alek.’

At least he has the courtesy to look up at that. Though the almost bored expression on his face is _infuriating_. ‘Oh. And?’

Revan furrows his brow, tries not to look as angry as he feels. ‘Anything you feel like sharing with the class?’

Alek’s gaze shifts from Revan’s eyes to his hands, to his folded arms. He takes another swig from the beer. ‘It’s a business expense. Unless you’re getting tired of number-one hits?’

‘Eighteen grand for coke isn’t a fucking business expense.’

The asshole has the temerity to shrug. Fucking _shrug_. ‘Give it to the accountants. They’ll figure it out.’

‘Oh? You got receipts? Didn’t realise dealers were so thorough about documenting shit for the HMRC.’

Alek shoots him a look that says _you_ _’ve bought enough drugs with me to know, dickhead_. Audibly he says, ‘Fuck off, Revan. They’ll figure it out. Unless you’re saying it’s not justified?’

‘You stole from the band. How the _shit_ is that justified?’

‘Did you get stupid or something? Writing hits _for the band_. It’s not stealing; it’s an investment.’ He scratches his nose, still looking almost apathetic about the whole thing. Like it doesn’t matter. Like he was stealing from some stranger and not his oldest, closest friend. ‘Like a side payment, even.’

Revan genuinely can’t figure out whether he’s grateful that Alek isn’t high off his ass right now or furious that Alek is too fucking flat to at least pretend to give a shit.

Alek, the cunt that he is, merely raises an eyebrow and takes another mouthful. The bottle’s half-done already. ‘So we done here?’

Fuck, he wishes they were. He hates the words he’s about to say but there’s only one way he’s getting through to the idiot. ‘Only if _you_ want to be done here,’ he says, taking a step in Alek’s direction.

Alek just snorts. ‘As if you’d do that. S’why we’re talking now, isn’t it?’ His eyes narrow. His grip on the bottle tightens. ‘You won’t get rid of me. You can’t.’

He always kind of hates being reminded how well Alek knows him. And he _really_ hates that Alek apparently still knows him when Revan himself feels like he’s staring down a stranger wearing Alek’s skin.

He takes another step anyway, jams his hands in his back pockets so he’s not tempted to shirt-front the idiot and shake him until he understands. _Work with me here_ , Revan wants to snarl. _I_ _’m trying to_ ** _help_** _you_. Instead, he just says, ‘No, but legal sure as fuck will.’

‘Piss off; I started this thing with you – fuck, we started _everything_ together!’

And there it is; the appeal to how everything began. Before Revanchist, they were The Padawans. Before Surik and HK arrived on the scene they were just two teenage idiots with guitars and a dream of changing the world. Questionable fashion choices and a lot more hair, too – though he supposes that the stupid red jacket proves that even though they’re light-years away from their humble beginnings, some things haven’t changed.

Well. That’s why he’s here in the first place, isn’t it?

It hurts even though he was anticipating it. It hurts because they _did_ start everything together. It hurts because they _are_ light-years away from those humble beginnings and he hates to admit it but somewhere along the way, things changed, and not solely for the better. And it really, _really_ fucking hurts now that he’s thinking of Alek the way he used to be, all boyish grins and genuine laughter instead of the chemically flat and indifferent junkie knobhead standing in front of him.

He was expecting it though, so he grits his teeth and refuses to remove his hands from his pockets. Doesn’t stop his pain bleeding out through his voice. Kind of ironic, really; he’s usually proud of how expressive his vocals are. ‘You sure as shit haven’t been acting like it. When was the last time you showed up on time for anything to do with the band? Fuck, you couldn’t even show up on time _today_!’

Christ, he sounds like someone in a bad relationship. All that’s missing is the soap-opera music.

Then again when was the last time he and Alek actually had something approaching a good relationship without drugs, booze or groupies being involved?

(He is _so_ not thinking of those post-show sessions now. His resolve is already shit where Alek’s concerned; he does _not_ need to make things worse with memories of hazy lights and slow come-downs and callused hands and –)

‘Doesn’t fucking matter if I still bring the goods to the table, right?’ Alek spits, harshly jerking Revan back to the present, away from far more pleasant things.

‘Are you kidding me? If it’s your shit you come in off your face and give useless fucking advice when we ask for it; if it’s ours you play it like it’s fucking _Hot Cross Buns_ and ignore half the fucking feedback!’

‘Like it’s –’ Alek steps forward, teeth bared, and Revan fucking _hates_ that _of course_ Alek’s more offended by allegations against his playing than the fact Revan found out he skimmed nearly twenty fucking thousand pounds of gig payments. ‘How many hits have I written for us? How many shows have I fucking _rocked_ for us?’

‘And how much of that could you do on your own, huh?’

‘About as much as you could do without _me_.’ His eyes narrow and his tone grows menacing. ‘You wouldn’t even _be_ here without me. Unless you forgot who sat there for two weeks helping you remember your own fucking name.’

‘Who kept giving me the bumps that put me there in the first place, Squint?’

Alek flinches. Hard. ‘Don’t you dare.’

_Such_ a fucking Alek thing, to drag up the ghosts of the past when they suit him and demand clemency when they don’t.

Maybe this Alek isn’t as much of a stranger as Revan wants him to be.

‘You started it,’ he says, his voice low and deep. ‘Want to keep going, or are we going to deal with this like grown-ups?’

Alek’s eyes dart to Revan’s hands (still in the back pockets) then back to meet Revan’s gaze. If he squeezes that bottle any tighter it’s going to break. ‘Still don’t see anything to deal with.’

He’s not going to rise to the bait. He’s _not_. ‘It’s simple,’ Revan says through gritted teeth, because it _is_. ‘You’ll pay back the money. You’ll agree not to do it again. And you’ll pull your fucking head in – or you’re done.’

Alek blinks once, blinks twice. ‘You’re serious.’

‘As the grave.’

‘What,’ Alek says, and the surprise in his voice is _so_ much more genuine than it has any right to be, ‘the _fuck_ , Revan? You’d really kick me out over a measly six –’

‘Eighteen.’

‘– eighteen fucking grand? That’s bullshit!’

He’s going to rip his back pockets clean off if he’s not careful. ‘It’s not about the shitting _money_ , Alek. Could’ve been fifteen bucks but you still stole it from – from the band.’ From _me_ , he wants to say but he knows Alek won’t see it like that. ‘This is bigger than just you and me.’

The hurt in Alek’s voice is deeper than it has any right to be, too. He thinks he might understand if he tried. He’s not sure it’s fucking worth it right now. ‘As if that’s anything new,’ he snarls. ‘It’s always been bigger than just you and me, hasn’t it? First it was “let’s get gigs outside the school”, then outside the city, then headlining tours, then fucking Malachor –’

‘And you were right there with me every step of the way. Changing the world, remember?’

Alek’s pupils shrink to pinpricks. ‘And you think you can still pull that off without me?’

No, he doesn’t think he can pull it off without Alek. Nor does he really want to. But he _knows_ he can’t pull it off with a thieving junkie for a lead guitarist, no matter how talented the man is. And when push comes to shove he’ll take the chance of success over a guaranteed failure. It’s a simple equation. He hates it – _god_ does he hate it – but no matter how he looks at it, he can’t make one and one add to three. Not like this.

So Revan forces himself to narrow his eyes and steel his tone as he lies through his teeth. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’

Alek’s face contorts horribly. Revan steels himself for a punch or a kick or _something_ he only kind of deserves but instead Alek snarls like a feral animal and lurches to the side, pegging the bottle clear across the room. It explodes against glass-fronted cabinet in a spray of sharp shards and misted beer and fucking _god_ it’s _such_ an Alek thing to do – _such_ an Alek thing to do. React without thinking, lash out instead of talking. And it’s such a fucking _Revan_ thing to do to have to be the responsible one and clean up the mess.

But _fuck_ is he earning that drink.

‘You’re fucking _lucky_ you didn’t get T3,’ Revan snarls, even as he stalks towards the mess and away from the muttering, cursing, drink-less idiot that he still somehow calls his best friend. He’s not going to let his anger get the best of him; he is _not_. He is calm. He is in control. The fact that he’s walking away from Alek is a _good_ thing because even if it means picking up bits of glass it at least means he’s not tempted to smash in Alek’s stupid, irresponsible face.

‘Couldn’t make the fucking thing work any worse. You give more of a shit about it than you do me.’

‘It’s more reliable, more useful, better looking – why wouldn’t I?’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

‘I’m going out of my way to try and keep you around; what the shit do you think I’m doing? _Enjoying_ this?’ He tries to focus his attention on the mess. Most of the shards look to be from the cabinet rather than the bottle; the neck and top are practically still intact, with the odd chunk of amber glass strewn amongst the clear fragments now littering the ground, the corner of an amp, a couple power boards and a particularly unfortunate effects pedal. No beer on T3, thank fuck. That pedal’s definitely going to be an insurance claim though, to say nothing of the cabinet. Hopefully there’s a code for “an idiot had a temper tantrum”. ‘Be fucking grateful. If you were anyone else you’d have been out on your ass yesterday instead of today.’

He hears Alek follow him across the room. He keeps his eyes on the shards, though, and hopes like fucking hell that the prick doesn’t keep pushing. Revan’s a patient man, a _controlled_ man but even Mother Teresa had her limits and Revan is far from a fucking saint.

He doesn’t manage to kneel to pick up a single piece before a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. He grits his teeth, tries to keep his hands unclenched.

‘You’re talking like you’ve already made up your mind. I don’t like it.’

‘Can’t say I do either.’ He tries to shrug the hand off but it refuses to budge. ‘And my mind _is_ made up. Either you accept the terms I’m offering or you’re done.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

Turning around to face Alek is a bad idea; not turning around is worse. At least this way he’ll see the punch coming.

Revan sets his jaw, ignores the way Alek’s hand falls limp as it drops off his shoulder, forces himself to stare his oldest friend straight in the eyes. ‘I am not bluffing,’ he says, his voice ice-cold. ‘For the last time. Either you accept those terms or you’re out of the band. It’s not a negotiation.’

Alek bares his teeth. ‘There _is_ no band without me. You _need_ me, Revan.’

The thing that fucking sucks is, Revan isn’t sure he’s wrong.

The thing that _really_ fucking sucks is that there’s no band if Alek stays like _this_ , either.

And the thing that Revan hates with the fury of a thousand suns is that yes, he _does_ need Alek, but the man in front of him _isn_ _’t Alek_. He’s a hedonistic liar wearing Alek’s face, talking in Alek’s voice, wearing Alek’s hideous red jacket but he’s _not Alek_. Not the one Revan grew up with. He’s not Squint.

(Except he still kind of is, really, and admitting that hurts more than Revan ever thought it would. How the shit did they end up like this? Fucking _how_?)

He shouldn’t reply to that. There’s no reply he can give that won’t piss Alek off beyond reason or be complete and utter bullshit. And yeah, okay, he kind of knew that this conversation was never going to go down _well_ but he still kind of thought that maybe, just fucking _maybe_ the cunt would have the tiniest shred of self-awareness left to realise what the shit his actions have done to Revan and – ‘No. I don’t.’

It’s the first time he’s even kind-of lied to Alek in more than a decade.

He’d deep-throat a sandpaper-covered toilet brush before a full day of recording if it meant he could say he wasn’t kind-of lying to himself.

Alek grabs him by the shirtfront and hauls him in close. ‘You say that again,’ he growls, his pupils pin-pricked, his lips twisted in a furious snarl. His hands are shaking – shit, his _voice_ is shaking. ‘Fucking – _say it_ , Revan.’

He shouldn’t. He’s angry and upset and pumped on adrenaline and he _knows_ he shouldn’t say it. He needs to apologise, needs to de-escalate the situation – he needs to _fix_ this, not break it further. 

Instead he opens his mouth and lies through his teeth, just to make Alek feel even half as shit as Revan does: ‘I don’t need you.’

He’s not even remotely surprised when Alek gives him a hard shove backwards.

Just because he’s not surprised doesn’t mean he’s not fucking _furious_.

On reflex alone he grabs the lapels of Alek’s stupid red jacket and they slam to the shard-covered ground almost together. They’re swinging before they’ve hit the floor – open palms, closed fists, knees, fucking _fingernails_ – and Revan snarls aloud as he’s crushed to the ground under Alek’s weight. A dozen tiny knives of glass stab into his back. He’ll feel them later. Right now he’s too preoccupied with the giant flailing at his face, with the burning rage in his chest telling him to lash out, to fight back, to make Alek feel just a fucking _part_ of the pain from the bullshit he’s caused –

‘You fucking _cunt_ ,’ Alek snarls. For a split second Revan thinks he might actually be seeing water in Alek’s eyes before a blow to his cheekbone jars his whole damn skull. ‘You piece of _shit_ –’

Revan tries to respond but a fist crashes into his temple before he gets the words out. His world spins nauseatingly; he swings on instinct, elbow-first. He knows he’s hit something when Alek’s voice cuts off in a hoarse cry. He knows things have gone wrong when he’s fucking glad of it.

Change of plans. He’ll fix shit _after_ he’s knocked Alek’s face in.

His hand fumbles into something hard and he grabs without thinking - he’s far from a pushover but Alek’s a goddamn juggernaut even when he’s not furious or boozed up. The moment his grip locks onto whatever the fuck he’s grabbed he whips it at Alek’s face. But rather the _sock_ or _thunk_ he expects to hear instead something sounds like it’s tearing – wet paper, or a piece of meat. He’s already halfway through the backswing so doesn’t stop, _can_ _’t_ stop, though he could swear Alek’s jacket never rode that high up and –

Something warm and wet sprays across his face as Alek throws himself backwards with a howl. Revan’s vision turns red - but only for a moment. Then, as his gaze locks onto the chunk of broken bottle in his hand, it clears, and begins to burn.

But - that’s not right, that _can_ _’t_ be right. The jagged end of the bottle is red instead of brown – that’s not right. And is that – is that a piece of paper or a chunk of… of…

The noise Alek makes is rougher than the screams of any crowd, harsher than the screech of any feedback. It’s wet – distorted – _heavy_. He’ll hear it in his nightmares for weeks.

He can’t look up. He has to look up, he _needs_ to look up because he can’t have, he surely _can_ _’t_ have – but he doesn’t want to. It’s not real until he sees it. If he doesn’t see it, it’s not real. He can pretend this is just a hallucination brought on by stress, maybe a concussion from that shot Alek got on him.

Slowly, unwillingly, his eyes drag up to focus on Alek. He’ll prove himself wrong. He’s just gone temporarily insane; he wouldn’t have _really_ glassed the man…

…he’s never seen that much blood in person before.

Even Alek’s _shirt_ is red now.

To say nothing of the rivulets of blood staining the hands clasped over his mouth – over his jaw – what’s _left_ of his jaw – from the mess that _used to be_ his jaw – that _Revan_ did to him –

They’ve fought before, they’ve come to blows before but – not like this. Not like this. Not leaving scars, not with _blood_ – not like this.

The bottle in his hand feels heavier than any microphone, heavier than any guitar.

His eyes are the worst part. He’s in pain, Revan can so clearly see it but it’s so much deeper than he’s ever seen it before. Alek’s hurting but at the same time it’s like he couldn’t give a shit about his face. Like he’s not even feeling the blood trailing down his neck, over his hands. Like not a single fucking thing matters about the wound except for the fact it was _Revan_ who swung the bottle at him.

Revan swallows, hard. He doesn’t have the words. He’s not sure he ever will.

Alek half-stumbles, half-crawls to his knees. He goes to shake his head, crushes his eyes shut when even that hurts him too much, almost retches. The red travesty’s even redder now – almost brown in spots. He’s going to need a new one. Those marks won’t ever dry-clean out.

Revan wants to run over to him. He wants to tear his own fucking shirt off, stem the bleeding, call an ambulance, put the goddamn stitches in himself. At the same time he wants to lay into the cunt again and again and again until the very concept of a face is fucking wasted on him. He wants to say _I_ _’m so sorry_ , wants to say _I wasn_ _’t thinking, I didn’t mean it, you’ll be okay_ but he _did_ mean it, the blood is _deserved_ , it’s the fucking _least_ that Alek owes him and just – _Christ –_

Even now, he’d still forgive him. He’d accept the most insincere apology, nurse Alek back to health with a fucking white pinafore on if it meant they could keep what they had before now, if it meant things could stay the way they were.

Blood-drops splatter on the floor from Alek’s neck and the bottle in Revan’s hand.

There’s no coming back from this.

Alek says nothing, turns around, lurches out of the room without looking back once.

Revan hears the front door open with a creak and close with a hiss. Then… nothing. No sirens. No alarms. No screams. Nothing.

The bottle in his hand is so very, very heavy.

What the fuck has he done?

He’s still lying in a pool of glass shards and blood - only some of it his own - propped up on one elbow, staring blankly at the half-open door. He’s still clutching the broken bottle like it’s a magic lamp, like all he’s got to do to make this better is give it a good rub and wish himself back to five minutes ago. Like he can just load a save-state and try again. He’ll say something different this time, say something _better_ this time, won’t grab the bottle this time -

If this felt any less surreal he’d be shaking. It’s like a hallucinogen-free out-of-body experience with gorier visuals.

He needs to clean this all up - get rid of the evidence, get rid of the _proof._ Sweep up the glass shards (he can’t pick them up, not with his hands so unsteady), mop up the blood (thank _fuck_ for vinyl flooring), figure out why the cabinet broke (maybe _he_ dropped a beer into it?)…

…except it doesn’t matter, does it? The cunt’s face alone will be all the proof anyone needs. There’s no question he’ll have to head to the ER, no question he’ll need medical attention and there’s no fucking way he’s going to try the old “I tripped and fell”. Alek might just be pissed enough with him to press charges, might be stupid enough to forget Revan has proof of him stealing from the band, might be high enough off painkillers to not fucking care. He always was impulsive and Revan somehow doubts that more drugs – even the legal, professionally-administered kind – are going to change that.

Still, he should start cleaning up. It’s something to do to keep busy until the cops come for him. Something more productive than lying here and staring at the studio door, waiting for things to start making sense again.

(They have to eventually, right? Right?)

Five minutes or a hundred years later he’s jolted from his stunned reverie by the buzzing of his phone - it’s off to the side, must have fallen out of his pocket during the brawl. It’s a message notification. His heart soars for a moment – _Squint_? – but the contact name’s wrong, all wrong. Alek’s been Alek in his phone for years now anyway, he remembers. Not Squint. Not ever again.

When he can focus his eyes enough to read he’s unsure how to feel to see it’s from Surik: [ _Checking in. Did the shithead ever show up?]_

He should probably reply to that, if only to tell her to give legal a heads-up on the overtime they’re about to need to pull. PR, too. _God_ that’s going to be a fucking nightmare. Even if the cunt doesn’t press charges there’s the split announcement, there’s reorganizing the tour schedule, revoking studio passes, changing access to the accounts –

His phone buzzes again – another message. [ _Just saw an alert from YVIN saying he_ _’s in hospital, some random attacked him. Looked ugly. He actually make it to the studio? We actually wanting to find out, or…?]_

Of fucking _course_ he’d say that, the prick. Some random. Some _random_. Some nameless stranger without a face or a name or a justification or regrets.

He’s glad for it and so fucking _mad_ for it that he almost wants to peg the half-bottle his damn self. _He_ did that to Alek – him. Revan. The founder of Revanchist, Alek’s oldest fucking _friend_ and he unzipped the cunt’s jaw practically without fucking thinking. Not some fucking “random”.

Easier for legal, he tells himself. Easier for the future. Except the future doesn’t have Alek in it anymore, so it might as well be nothing at all.

His back’s starting to sting. It takes him longer than it should to realise it’s because he’s still laying on top of literal broken glass. It takes him not even a moment to know it’s the least of what he deserves. The scars from _his_ wounds won’t be visible, if they even scar at all.

He manages to at least roll onto his side, drag himself up to sitting hunched-over. The stinging intensifies when he leans against the broken cabinet but he doesn’t jerk away - it’s nothing compared to the mess in his head. Both the cabinet and the shirt and fucked anyway. And it’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of blood left to lose.

Another buzz. Right; time’s still a thing. The rest of the world’s still turning. He’s the only one that’s fallen off. [ _Revan. Answer me, you prick.]_

Even if he wanted to he couldn’t let go of the bottle, couldn’t pick up his phone. Everything feels too heavy. It’s like the atmosphere itself is water. He’s drowning on dry land, crushed by the weight of his own fucking hubris and _shit_ , why didn’t he hold his tongue? Why did Alek have to push him? Why couldn’t Alek just fucking take Revan’s advice, take Revan’s _help_ and then the band would still be together, Alek’s _face_ would still be together –

_[Pick your fucking phone up.]_

He can’t. His fingers are locked around the bottle-neck. He tries to take a swig from pure muscle memory and need but when he raises it to his face the scent of hot rust and hops fills his nostrils, the taste of iron and salt drips onto his lips. It should make him nauseous, he thinks. He can’t feel it though. It’s like he’s lagging behind reality – like he’s stuck in some loading-zone, in some time between moments, where nothing affects anything and he might as well be a ghost and _fuck_ , that’s _Squint_ _’s blood_ in his fucking mouth –

His arm lowers the bottle before his stomach’s even thought about turning; no beer.

More’s the fucking pity.

The phone buzzes again but he can’t even make himself look over to check it. He can’t pick it up anyway; what’s it fucking matter to read a message he’s going to ignore regardless? None of them will be from Alek. None of them will be telling him this afternoon was just a fever dream, that he only imagined glassing his best friend, that he didn’t fuck up the band for good. God, rehearsals are going to be _so_ fucking awkward after this…

Or not, even, because Alek won’t be there anymore. Not even late. Just… not there. At all.

Maybe they’ll actually be able to start on time for once.

Maybe he isn’t disgusted with himself for thinking that he’d take a year’s worth of late starts over _this_.

No, no, it’s just reflex, that’s all. He’s never been in a band without Alek - of course it’s strange. Of course he wants things to go back to how they were. New is hard, different is hard, rehearsing on time with a thieving junkie is… well, not easy, but easier than things _changing_. Easier than moving forwards. Easier than doing what’s right for the band.

(Alek. Alek was what was right for the band. Except he wasn’t, even when he was and fucking _Christ_ Revan wishes he hit the fucker harder. It would’ve been easier to deal with a corpse than _this_.)

More buzzes. More inability to care. It doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters. None of this was ever in any of the clauses he insisted on adding to the contract; none of this was ever in _any_ of the future plans he had for the band.

_“A band? Like, you and me?”_

_A casual nod, trying so hard to be cool, like he_ _’s not bursting out of his skin with nerves and excitement. “I mean, maybe some others eventually ‘cos we’ll need drums and bass but like… what do you think?”_

_The widest smile he_ _’s ever seen; all teeth and energy and eagerness. “Fuck, yes!”_

_Confidence blooms through his chest; they_ _’re going to do it. They’re going to pull this off after all. Him and Alek –_

Revan leans hard into the cabinet, not even wincing as the shards of glass drive further into his skin. They’re not big enough to really hurt him. Just big enough to keep him tethered to reality, even though he wants nothing less than to drift off and never return.

The studio’s a mess of glass, beer and blood. They’ve got no lead guitarist, no path to a new lead guitarist, a show at Citadel Station in a couple months and half of Alek’s fucking face is still on the end of the bottle. Even the worst of his worst-case scenarios falls laughably short of his new reality.

He fucked up. He fucked up _so_ badly. And yeah, it’s kind of Alek’s fault more than his but _fuck_ –

God, he needs a drink.

He’ll just have to wait until he can bring himself to move again.

*

Some time after Alek leaves, just as he’s starting to talk himself into getting up to deal with shit, he hears the main doors open. He’s got no fucking idea what time it is and even less of an idea of who it might be. He almost hopes it’s the cops, slightly less the studio security – but he knows it isn’t. If Alek was going to turn him in for this he’d have been cuffed and stuffed ages ago. And studio security don’t come in via the front door. Not during daylight hours on a fucking Saturday.

Even knowing what’s coming isn’t quite enough motivation to reach his feet before the studio door swings open.

‘He’s out,’ Revan says thickly – the first words he’s spoken since Alek left.

Surik drops her phone. HK doesn’t, but that’s probably only because it’s in his pocket instead of his hand. It’s the first time Revan’s ever seen him look visibly surprised, though.

‘What,’ Surik finally says, after several seconds of staring at the mess wide-eyed and mouth agape, ‘the _fuck_ , Revan?’

He shrugs. Then because he still doesn’t really know how to answer that, he shrugs again. ‘He didn’t agree to the terms I offered him. The discussion went poorly.’

‘No fucking _shit_.’ She remembers how to walk and makes as if to move to him before she sees the full extent of the mess on the floor; her face blanches. ‘Jesus. Fucking - _god_.’

HK hesitates. His eyes flick between the bloody glass, the blood on the walls, the blood on Revan’s own hands. He goes to say something before apparently thinking better of it; he shakes his head instead, tries again. ‘So what does this mean for the band, then?’

‘ _That_ _’s_ your first concern?’ Surik snaps. She draws her fingers through her hair, leaves her hands pressed on the back of her neck like this is just a headache she can massage away. ‘Not the glass or the blood or…’

Revan doesn’t really hear the rest of her rant; he’s too fixated on HK’s words. _So what does this mean for the band?_

What _does_ this mean for the band?

The obvious answer is “they’re fucking done” but he’s not having that, not for one fucking second. Bands lose members all the time and continue. Bands lose _founding_ members all the time and continue. Alek was damn near a guitar savant but it’s not like there’s a _shortage_ of guitarists out there, not like there aren’t hundreds of hacks who’d sell their souls for the chance to play for Revanchist - surely there’s an overlap between those two groups. And surely within that overlap there’ll be someone with a smart mouth, with a no-fucks-given attitude, _without_ a coke habit, with the uncanny ability to know exactly what Revan meant by _same again but better_ _…_ someone like Alek, exactly like Alek, but not fucked up. Someone he can banter with during rehearsals, go drinking with after gigs, who knows exactly what Revan’s saying without him needing to say a damn thing -

Yeah. _That_ _’s_ gonna fucking happen.

_I don_ _’t need you_.

It was said as a lie but he needs to make it the truth. He _will_ make it the truth. Not today, not tomorrow (he ignores the voice that says _not ever_ ) but he will make it the fucking truth come hell or high water.

So what does this mean for the band?

It means they’re rolling up their sleeves, fixing Alek’s fucking mess up, and getting right the fuck back into shit.

‘- fuck, HK, that prick’s got rights to half the fucking back catalogue; what the fuck can we even play without having to pay him a share? We can’t come back from this. We’re done. We can’t -’

Revan finally lets go of the bottle as he pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the pricks of pain across his back, the stabs of pain in his hands. Those wounds will heal. ‘No. No, we’re not done. Not like this.’ He clenches his hands into fists. Forget the blood dripping out between his fingers as shards of glass are forced deeper into his palms – he’s a vocalist anyway. Fuck his fingers. Fuck his _skin_. He’ll get them through this. ‘So what the fuck if he’s got half the rights. We’ll keep going. We’ll be _better_. He’s not – we’re not letting him break – break _us_.’

He’s not letting Alek break _him_.

Not like this.

Surik’s gaze is wary. Leery. She’s wavering, he knows this; they’ve worked together too long for him to miss it. She wanted out after fucking Malachor and that was _nothing_ compared to – to this. ‘I know what you’re saying, Revan, but _fuck_ -’

Fuck it. He doesn’t have the composure left to start small. Nuclear option it is. ‘We survived _Malachor_ ,’ he says, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. She flinches – at the blood he’s inadvertently smeared on her? At the reminder? He doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter and he will _not_ feel guilty for it now, it doesn’t _matter_ right now – ‘We can’t let a temper tantrum from a thieving junkie cunt do what _that_ shit-show didn’t. We made it through that. We’ll make it through this.’ He hesitates, just for a moment, before going for the kill: ‘Unless you want everything between then and now to have been for nothing. Trust me, Surik.’

The pain in her eyes solidifies, becomes something darker. Not victorious – not determined – just darker. Heavier.

He shouldn’t have done that. He should _not_ have done that. But he can’t second-guess himself now. He can’t afford to. The band _must_ endure, even if they all break apart at the seams.

She’ll be glad for it later. _He_ _’ll_ be glad for it later. It’s fine. It’s Alek’s fucking fault anyway – they _have_ to endure, if only to spite him. If only to prove him _wrong_.

_I don_ _’t need you._

He squeezes her shoulder. Not too hard, but firmly. ‘We can do this,’ he says, more to himself than to her. ‘We _will_ do this.’

Her lips thin. She gives him a wordless nod, then pulls away. ‘You’re the man with the plan.’ Left unspoken is the implied _you better be_.

HK folds his arms, jams his hands into his armpits. ‘I assume we do not wish the janitors to find this, then. I will fetch cleaning supplies. Is a first-aid kit required?’

‘Bring it anyway,’ Surik says. Her tone is firm but her voice is trembling.

Revan wipes his mouth with the back of one hand. ‘Lock this place down while you’re at it. Cancel the evening security sweep, tell them we’re rehearsing or something.’

‘And the label? Legal? PR?’

‘I’ll handle all that once this shit’s cleaned up,’ he says tersely. And he will - he has to - but right now he just wants his studio back to the way it was earlier, clean and pristine, ready to rock. No glass. No blood.

No Alek.

_Fuck_ does he want a drink.

Either he spoke that last bit aloud or the need is written on his face because HK’s already headed for the mini-fridge. ‘Then we’d best get started,’ HK says, and by the time he’s turned around with beers in hand - cans, not bottles - his expression is as cool and controlled as it always is. It’s the first time Revan’s ever found himself _jealous_ of how mechanical HK seems at times. Fuck knows he could do with an off switch for his emotions right now.

Revan takes a can without hesitation. Surik does hesitate, but only for a moment, and takes her own can with pursed lips and heavy eyes.

‘To work, then,’ Revan orders. It’s not a toast, not really, but they tap the cans together all the same. An agreement, maybe. A promise. They’re in this together now; they _will_ get through this. _He_ will get through this.

_I don_ _’t need you_.

Despite how long he’s been holding out for this drink, it still feels fucking hollow going down.


End file.
